Tales of the Five Towns eBook

which enliven the four seasons in the Five Towns.
It is still called Knype Wakes, because once Knype
overshadowed Hanbridge in importance; but its headquarters
are now quite properly at Hanbridge, the hub, the
centre, the Paris of the Five Towns—­Hanbridge,
the county borough of sixty odd thousand inhabitants.
It is the festival of the masses that old Jack sprang
from, and every genteel person who can leaves the Five
Towns for the seaside at the end of July. Nevertheless,
the district is never more crammed than at Knype Wakes.
And, of course, genteel persons, whom circumstances
have forced to remain in the Five Towns, sally out
in the evening to ‘do’ the Wakes in a
spirit of tolerant condescension. Ellis was in
this case. His parents and sisters were at Llandudno,
and he had been left in charge of the works and of
the new house. He was always free; he could always
pity the bondage of his sisters; but now he was more
free than ever—­he was absolutely free.
Imagine the delicious feeling that surged in his heart
as he prepared to plunge himself doggishly into the
wild ocean of the Wakes. By the way, in that heart
was the image of a girl.

II

He stepped off the car on the outskirts of Hanbridge,
and strolled gently and spectacularly into the joyous
town. The streets became more and more crowded
and noisy as he approached the market-place, and in
Crown Square tramcars from the four quarters of the
earth discharged tramloads of humanity at the rate
of two a minute, and then glided off again empty in
search of more humanity. The lower portion of
Crown Square was devoted to tramlines; in the upper
portion the Wakes began, and spread into the market-place,
and thence by many tentacles into all manner of streets.

No Wakes is better than Knype Wakes; that is to say,
no Wakes is more ear-splitting, more terrific, more
dizzying, or more impassable. When you go to
Knype Wakes you get stuck in the midst of an enormous
crowd, and you see roundabouts, swings, switchbacks,
myrioramas, atrocity booths, quack dentists, shooting-galleries,
cocoanut-shies, and bazaars, all around you.
Every establishment is jewelled, gilded, and electrically
lighted; every establishment has an orchestra, most
often played by steam and conducted by a stoker; every
establishment has a steam—­whistle, which
shrieks at the beginning and at the end of each round
or performance. You stand fixed in the multitude
listening to a thousand orchestras and whistles, with
the roar of machinery and the merry din of car-bells,
and the popping of rifles for a background of noise.
Your eyes are charmed by the whirling of a million
lights and the mad whirling of millions of beautiful
girls and happy youths under the lights. For
the roundabouts rule the scene; the roundabouts take
the money. The supreme desire of the revellers
is to describe circles, either on horseback or in
yachts, either simple circles or complex circles,